No Love, No Glory
by Baratsuki
Summary: *update* no longer a one-shot, can't exactly be summarized. Rated for mildly implied sex.
1. The Note

Quiet hovered over the whole shimmering expanse of London. Of course, the city never went completely silent, not even on Christmas Eve. Somewhere, people were busy letting alcohol infiltrate their blood, their minds. Letting music damage their ear drums, letting strange people who looked attractive to their clouded minds touch them and take them home. At the very least, they weren't alone. The same could not be said for a certain Mister Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to be busy trying to procure some scotch from the cluttered cabinets of his dark flat. He didn't care much about the fact that he knew he kept no food or drink of any sort in his kitchen, he didn't want to think. At the eleventh hour of night after going a day or two without food and sleep, thinking hurt, it burned like acid in his brain. He threw experiment after experiment onto the already cluttered floor of the kitchen, careful to avoid the living things creeping about behind them. Sherlock soon ran into a note, taped on the inside of the cabinet door. He paused, considering whether or not to read it, seeing as the sender bore the name of "John Watson". A name that he'd tried to erase, tried to delete, tried to paint over with the dark shimmering black that seemed to cover every corner of his mind.

John had married her almost a month ago. At first, Sherlock tried to take into account that he wasn't the easiest man to live with, and certainly wasn't kind to anyone. He was kind to John. He made that exception just for him, the only person who had ever really tried to understand him. Even behind that drab, oatmeal colored façade, there was a warm, rich sparkle. Sherlock couldn't see it at first, his guarded personality and psychosomatic limp saw to that. After all of the incredibly boring parts of John were aside, there was a man who had a taste for adventure. A man who took his tea boiling hot and didn't give a damn if it scalded his tongue and burned his throat. Sherlock admired that 'spunk' that he kept covered in drab sweaters and faded denim; he found it appealing in an inexplicably pleasing way.

Sherlock took the note from the dirty cabinet door, eyeballing it suspiciously and even checking for any telling smells (women's perfume, cigar/cigarette/pipe/blunt smoke, etc.). Of course, he found none. The light scent of John's cologne graced the paper, but based on the dark ink writing and the musty smell of cabinet wood that covered it, it could have been anywhere from a week to a month old. John used to leave notes, before he realized that it was much easier just to send Sherlock a text (more of a chance of him actually reading it too). He missed John's notes, even if they were failed attempts at warning him that John would be coming home late, or out with a woman, or even sometimes out buying food for Sherlock, who normally trailed after him when food was involved, anyway. The best thing about those times was that John never stayed out with women for long before coming back to the flat, disappointed, snappy, and in much need of a hot cup of tea (possibly laced with whiskey).

Sherlock lost track of time as he tried to resurrect the memories of the whiskey-laced-tea nights. They made no sense and twisted themselves deep into the crevices of his brain, trying to bury the thoughts that he knew would reopen scars and feelings that had just freshly healed. Whispers and odd sensations were recalled, the burn of the whiskey down his throat, and then other even stranger, more pleasurable sensations. Sherlock was well-aware of what they had done, he'd just chosen not to acknowledge it, and John did the same. He didn't particularly like doing so, and Sherlock could tell. John probably would have preferred that they slept late, and let the sun warm their skin. John would have wanted to watch Sherlock sleep, and watch him wake up, then watch him smile or yawn or do whatever thing he did right after he woke up. Sherlock wouldn't have it.

What Sherlock would have, though, was allowing John to wake him up if nightmares plagued the doctor's sleep. Ella had told John that the nightmares wouldn't last long, but that if he took some depression medicine or other they'd stop quicker. Sherlock called Ella's office the next day and canceled John's account with them. Naturally, John was furious, but he didn't have them as often if Sherlock was in the room right over, awake when and if he was needed. Which was quite often, whether a nightmare or just an annoying cold was bothering John. Considering that Sherlock made John run all over the city for him, getting up in the middle of the night to comfort his friend was a fair deal. It even became something he enjoyed, but that was before the woman had shown up and took his place.

He didn't know her name, nor did he ever want to. He was afraid of himself when it came to jealousy, afraid he would find her, afraid he would do something regretful. Sherlock noticed the frequency and length of John's outings with the woman increased, and after only knowing her for two months, John asked her to marry him. The detective couldn't handle it; not nearly as well as the person he pretended to be could. Sherlock began buying more bottles of strong liquor, becoming quite drunk and then brooding for hours at a time every night. What did it matter? John was over at the woman's house. He didn't need Sherlock to need him anymore. Sherlock tried not to care, he honestly did…but it was too much, and inspector Lestrade needed him on cases, so many cases. Sherlock's mind had already become cluttered from the amount of useless information that built up from watching the TV shows John loved. It was the only way that Sherlock could feel John's presence when John was gone…which was almost every day.

Sherlock began to read the note, still slightly stunned from the idea that John might have left it recently:

"Sherlock,

It's been great getting to live with you, you know. You've really made this special.

Little did I know, you'd turn my life upside down and inside out. It's funny how Outwardly happy you've made me act, when I was just a closed off personality. Very odd that I met someone as amazingly unique as you. Especially with everything that I do to suppress oddities in myself and my world.

You have changed me for the better is where I'm going with this. Really, you have. Often, we forget the most important people in our lives, but I won't forget you. Ultimately, my message to you is in this letter, you'll just have to look closely.

Yours Truly, John"

It took Sherlock exactly 3.2 seconds to figure out why John had capitalized the wrong letters and written so badly.

"**Sherlock**,

**I**_t's been great getting to live with you, you know. You've really made this special._

**L**_ittle did I know, you'd turn my life upside down and inside out. It's funny how _**O**_utwardly happy you've made me act, when I was just a closed off personality. _**V**_ery odd that I met someone as amazingly unique as you. Especially with _**E**_verything that I do to suppress oddities in myself and my world. _

**Y**_ou have changed me for the better is where I'm going with this. Really, you have. _**O**_ften, we forget the most important people in our lives, but I won't forget you. _**U**_ltimately, my message to you is in this letter, you'll just have to look closely. _

**Yours Truly,**

**John**"

He stared at the note for a few staggering moments, his body not wanting to respond to his brain's desperate commands to suppress everything. Sherlock felt the wetness of his cheek, and watched the wandering tear making its way down onto the paper in his hand. "I'm going to marry her, Sherlock, whether you like it or not. Please don't try to stop me." The conversation tugged at his memory gently, but Sherlock did not try to remember the rest, or even who won the argument. He knew, he knew everything this whole time. He had spent months trying to sort it all out, why John cared so very much. Now John would be in a marriage he did not really want, and he would be trapped with a woman he didn't really love...all because Sherlock couldn't solve that one mystery. So the mighty detective Sherlock Holmes, who had been in situations worse than death and close to meeting his maker so many times...fell to his knees and cried like a lost child.

A/N: Long chapter is long…bleh. Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you're all having a tremendous holiday and planning a crazy New Years' Eve party!


	2. John

He woke up to straight, brown hair and a woman's face. Her eyes were soft and subtle, but sparkling in the early morning light. Her face was smiling when he woke up, her hands gently stroking his hair. It wasn't that he did not love her, but rather that he felt trapped. He felt like a kitten in the clutches of a child, who would want to hug him so tightly that asphyxiation was a possibility. "Morning, Mr. Watson." She said softly, her cheeks still rosy from sleeping. He kissed her, allowing that to answer for him. He got out of bed, (probably earlier than she would have liked) and dressed in his usual, dull clothes. "Darling, is it alright if I go for a little walk? I need to pick up some milk from the store, anyhow." But she didn't reply, she had already gone back to sleep. John didn't bother with leaving a note.

The London air was freezing and biting at his exposed skin as he went, the barely rising sun doing little to assuage the temperature. Winter had recently taken its hold on the city, powdering every building and tree in a light snow fall. He knew he had no right to be secretly checking on Sherlock through Mrs. Hudson, but he was legitimately worried. It was seven in the morning, too early for Sherlock to be awake, and if he was, it was to renew his precious nicotine patches. He tried to encourage the detective to use other things as substitutes, but Sherlock didn't listen. He never wanted to listen to anybody. As a result of his deep "need" for drugs, Sherlock had been involved in three drug busts on his own apartment. John took all of his drugs away except for the nicotine patches, insisting that if he wanted them he could go and pick them up from the police station, but Sherlock was smarter than that. He had probably found other ways to obtain them now, since John couldn't stop him anymore. There were probably plenty of unhealthy habits Sherlock had re-established since John's departure and wedding. He hadn't even come to the ceremony, and if he was at the reception, John certainly didn't see him. John didn't worry about much anymore; he was safe in his settlement.

The only thing that bothered him was that Mycroft and Harry had become friends. While Mycroft was watching his little brother with concern, Harry tried to call upon hers at least once a week, just to 'see how things were'. John would probably have answered truthfully if he hadn't known that Harry was going off and telling Mycroft what he said. Mycroft was a little frightening and eccentric in his own way, and even though Sherlock obviously disliked him, John could see how they had grown up together. So, John didn't answer Harry truthfully. He lied about how happy he was with his wife, about how he wanted children with her. The worst of all the lies he told was that he loved her above anyone he had ever loved. John didn't usually lie about matters of the heart, but when it came to the true object of his affections, his lover was there to listen and make suggestions …no matter how unnecessary or inconvenient the commentary was. Sherlock usually made everything inconvenient and tedious for John, so it was nothing new. Even in the physical aspect, the man refused to share the same bed for too long afterward or even talk to him about it the next day. Such are the ways of a person like Sherlock.

Melcombe Street turned into Baker Street much quicker than John had expected. He didn't even have to look up to know his way to the weathered door of 221B. He didn't have to, but he did out of curiosity anyhow. The windows of the apartment above Mrs. Hudson's shop looked empty, not even a tiny amount of light came through the windows. It seemed safe to assume that Sherlock had either gone out or was finally asleep after a long night of his usual drug related insomnia. He smiled fondly at the numbers that were rusting lightly, knocking softly once, just to get the attention of his secret spy. He heard footsteps coming towards the door, heavier footsteps than Mrs. Hudson's. The doorknob was only just turning when John realized it was not the landlady who was answering. He wanted to pretend it was the wrong door, but it was too late.

Two crystalline eyes shimmered at him in the door way, the porcelain skin almost glowing in the pale blue light the clouds were creating. He looked weak, tired. Much more tired than usual, with dark circles under his eyes, and his cheekbones standing out so much further. His hair was curling in all sorts of odd directions, as was normal, but the coal black locks looked lightly faded, as though he had aged five years in the last month. His mouth fell open slightly, his lower lip quivering in shock. John fought hard to swallow, and stared in just as stunned a fashion as the man before him. Sherlock looked as though he were about to say something, but he closed his mouth sharply. The small sheet of paper with tape still attached in Sherlock's hand answered John's queries quickly.

A/N: I swear to you, the bands Barcelona and Beirut were the only reasons I finished this. Life got too distracting…Thanks to my three reviewers; I'm highly flattered by your compliments.

Shout out to my first reviews:Cryptic Nymph, ariacle, and CrumbleIntoMyArms.


	3. Irrevocable

Sherlock had been drifting in and out of the tides on the shores of sleep, each lulling wave of exhaustion stronger than the last, even in the icy sheets of his flat mate's single bed. He had learned to disregard the mess that had grown on the other side of the bedroom door, due to the fact that he hadn't let Mrs. Hudson into the apartment for the last difficult month. He tried to clean up and keep after himself, but his mind repeatedly strayed, often his eyes with it, gazing out of the nearest window. Sherlock felt like a matchbook with the spark paper scraped clean off; useless, totally useless. The deep rift that was Sherlock's loneliness brought him to John's empty room every night. John hadn't spent much time there, between cases and Sherlock staying up until the wee hours of the morning, and other instances, he'd only occupied the bed a few times in his two year stay with the detective. He appreciated the strange tidiness of the little room, illuminated by street lights flooding in through the thin curtains hanging on the window.

He had soon discovered that John had also been drawing in his spare time. The first few rough sketches he had found were of simple things like fruit, trees, flowers, and various fauna, but as he continued through the pages, the drawings vastly changed. The first thing he recognized was a picture of his own self, asleep. Sherlock did not often find sleep, and realizing that he had, at one time, been sleeping so soundly was rather a shock to him. He studied it for an hour or two, admiring the shading work and the fact that moonlight appeared to be spilling from the window by his bed. The feeling of paper crinkling in his pocket distracted him, and he pulled it out impatiently, eager to be rid of the disturbance. The note was worn and almost like cloth from the amount of times he had read over it, which must have been hundreds of times. A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He hoped Mrs. Hudson would answer it, but when she did not, he went down quietly to answer it himself.

He had never been so pleased to see a smaller, light-haired man in his entire life. John's surprise played over his face like a fine piece of music, causing Sherlock to stare for longer than necessary to take in the sight of him. A sudden understanding reached John's eyes as he saw the paper in Sherlock's hand. The taller man tucked it back into his robe pocket in slight embarrassment, color flushing his cheeks. John cleared his throat to ease the tension, and Sherlock took the opportunity to speak, "Won't you come in?" John simply nodded, hiding the confusion at Sherlock's calm manner.

John hadn't changed much at all, apart from looking healthier, and he even still wore the same dull kinds of clothing. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the cramped space that was their entryway with John almost against the door in front of him. He sighed deeply and tried to look anywhere but John's face, especially due to the proximity. "It's been quiet here. Since I last saw you, I mean." He finally mumbled, shyly still avoiding John's expression. "Are you alright? You seem like you have something all bottled up in that brain of yours." John inquired, cocking his head in curiosity. "I've –you know–cases get a little, well…boring. Especially when one is-"he took a moment to clear his throat and gather his thoughts, "-alone." Sherlock ended his sentence with a weak smile, as though to reassure John that he was perfectly fine. "Are you, perhaps, saying that you missed me?" the question almost made Sherlock leap up the stairs in hopes of escape. His head snapped up and he looked straight into John's eyes, "What? No…." he turned curtly on his heel and ascended the staircase in all of three steps. John remained where he was after Sherlock disappeared into the apartment, partially due to the fact that he could see the urgent mess that littered the area from the front door. After a few minutes of the sounds of pots being tossed carelessly aside and a small glass drinking tumbler hitting the counter top, Sherlock called down, "Tea, John?"

Papers, books, and other miscellaneous objects littered the dark wood floors of the upstairs rooms. "Sherlock, what-"– "Ignore the mess; Mrs. Hudson hasn't been in for a while." Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, cup in hand. He passed the hot drink off to John, grabbing some papers and shoving them into a random book, which he then kicked under the sofa. "Doesn't she have her own key to the flat?" John asked, relaxing into one of the worn arm chairs. Sherlock continued to haphazardly toss books under the sofa and papers into a waste bin while answering, "I put a padlock on the inside of the door. I needed a little bit of privacy." John set the cup aside, leaning forward invitingly, almost like a counselor talking to a troubled child, "Sherlock, please sit down." even his words conveyed a subdued commanding tone. The detective settled into an uneasy perch on the edge of the sofa, peering cautiously over at his visitor. "You're probably wondering why I'm here, and I promise it's all explainable." Sherlock smirked, seemingly without realizing he was doing so, "I know why you're here, John. You're worried about me, your wife smothers you, you like the store down the street, you miss me, and because of the note." John choked on air for a few moments, his face transforming from calm to shock in less than a second. "You….y-you read that? I mean, I knew you'd find it…eventually. I just didn't think…" Sherlock produced the paper from his pocket, passing it over to the other man with care. "I'll give you this, John. It was wonderfully clever." John inherited the look of a dog that had just been kicked, "Clever?" he asked exasperatedly, earning a rather smug look from Sherlock. "Quite clever." He answered, appearing to look occupied with his fingernails. John stood quickly, heading for the door of the flat, but a hand caught his sleeve, "Wait!" Sherlock cried before he could stop himself.

John turned about just enough to see the taller man on his knees, holding tightly to the sleeve of the doctor's street jacket. His clear eyes shone pleadingly, the grey in them catching natural light and appearing as ice in the moonlight. "I'm sorry for…" Sherlock began, but could not bring himself to finish. "Please, just…don't go." He said quietly, his face struggling between worriment and frustration. John turned back completely with a heavy sigh, "Give me one good reason, Sherlock. Give me one good reason why I would want to stay here." The kneeling man rose, cool as a spring morning. Silence fell all around, even the street. Pale cloud-veiled light leaking in from between the curtains infiltrated the darkness of the room, and formed around Sherlock's head like a halo. Tears formed in his eyes as a terrified realization crossed his face, and when John almost moved, almost broke the spell of immaculate stillness, whispered words froze his body like arctic waters,

"Because I love you."

A/N: Thank you so very much for the lovely reviews! I'm sorry I haven't replied to any of them, went through a lot of turmoil this last week with my "trusty" laptop antivirus...it's all good now. Expect chapter 4 pretty soon, but for now, I'm going to bed, dammit.


	4. Lumiscence

The words were like a kick in the stomach to him, leaving him gasping for air. His lips parted, attempted to form words, but it was futile. Everything was futile at the time, it seemed. Sherlock watched him, his eyes empty, yet filled with hope. Hope that John would reply, hope that John would say nothing and just rush forward into his arms, hope that if words were exchanged they were deep and meaningful, and not just masked excuses to leave. His eyes said all of this. Eyes like faded blue forget-me-nots that burned into people's minds, prying. With those eyes he could take down the entire royal family, John was sure. Although they were probably his best weapon, they were also his biggest weakness. Even when they were heavily guarded and steely, John could see what he thought, other people didn't, but John did. They were open to him, as Sherlock stood there, looking at him, hoping. They were open and so trusting, so very trusting that John would never hurt him. He did not see it, but a strong, glowing bond passed from eye to eye between them. It was not unlike dreams he'd had before, except then he could see it, and comprehend his own feelings, but now…. His eyes closed off his soul from the rest of him, the celestial field building between them breaking. "I can't."

John clasped his hands into shy fists, looking down, away from Sherlock. "I know." The crack in the other man's voice surprised him. He looked up, guiltily into Sherlock's eyes. Their silver irises shining with the fresh tears welling, and the way he clenched his jaw and bit his lower lip, it was all too much. John stepped closer, involuntarily extending his hand towards Sherlock's face. "Don't." was all he could say, "Please, don't." Sherlock shook his head, blinking, causing the tears to roll down his face, trying to form words without his voice shaking. John tried to look away again, but Sherlock's hand against his chin, pushing his face gently upward stopped him. "How can you do this to me? Hardened criminals who can act better Sir Ian Mckellen have tried and failed, so how did you succeed? How?" Sherlock laughed through the tears, still pleadingly gazing at John. He lost it then, unable to even keep his steady grip on John's face.

Watching Sherlock cry was like watching a building collapse, and in a way, that building was his tough outer shell. When Sherlock cried, he threw down door to his closet of secrets, and everything that had ever hurt him or worried him came out all at once. Sherlock collapsed into John's shoulder, expelling tears uncontrollably. John could think of nothing to say, nothing that would comfort him except saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." over and over again. It was becoming obvious that time had not been kind to Sherlock, and John had become part of the group of people who made it that way. He muttered a curse into Sherlock's hair, giving up with the words because he knows they do nothing. He didn't mean to hurt him, not at all. He wished Sherlock hadn't ever found the note, and that it could have just stayed hidden, yellowing with age and blending in with the old wood. He wished he could have found someone else to live with, someone like Anderson, maybe. Someone he could inwardly hate and hold polite, forced conversations with. He hadn't expected someone so unusual, so wonderfully strange. He especially hadn't expected someone who could understand what went through his head even when he didn't speak or show it on his face. He absent mindedly stroked the back of Sherlock's neck, silently appreciating the smoothness of the skin there. Sherlock's cries subsided, he relaxed into the touch gratefully.

The moment was beautiful, at least, in his mind. The room around him that had felt so cold and so empty when he first walked inside that day felt cozy again, warm again. Dark walls surrounded him still, so much like Sherlock's mind, which he was wrapped in, like a dark silk blanket. John lost his heart in that moment; he completely ignored the existence of time and other people. He lifted Sherlock's face in his hands, gazing into the clear eyes still wet with tears. He almost spoke, almost told Sherlock that he was beautiful, and almost told him that he loved him. He could have, and perhaps it would have changed something…but he knew deep down that nothing would have changed at all. Sherlock's forehead touched his, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes continued to shine, like great luminescent stars in the darkest night. There were no words to describe him for John. No phrases, paragraphs, or even the most profound poetry. Sherlock tilted his face sideways, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of John's mouth. He hesitated slightly, pressing another to the spot between John's ear and jaw muscle. His lips lingered, to feel the pulse that beat so quickly.

John resisted, his thoughts coming back to him as if from nowhere, but it was a rather hopeless resistance. "Sherlock, please. I-I….." the detective's curious gaze silenced him. Sherlock wordlessly pulled John's phone from his pocket, texted at an incredible speed, and then tossed it behind him. "What did you just…?" John attempted to peer behind him to see where the phone had gone, but Sherlock kept their eyes locked. Sherlock looked into the sunlight leaking through the curtains just behind John's head. It hadn't occurred to him how much time he'd spent with Sherlock at the apartment on Baker Street, but it mostly certainly was sunset. John turned about to watch it, his own face shining brilliantly in the sun. A smile, small though it was, crept over his features, and lit up his eyes. He turned to look at the man beside him, who was lit up and glowing as pale as the moon. Sherlock looked back at him; leaning so close that John could feel the heat radiating from his face. He touched his lips to John's shyly, as though testing icy waters. The sun which had been shielded by the clouds earlier that day shone its golden light onto the city, it was indeed beautiful, but John didn't see. The sun held little comparison to the moon, after all.

A/N:Anyone remember that beautiful moonlit shot from the un-aired pilot? Gotta love it. I'm thinking that maybe it's time Mycroft and Harry get their own narratives. It's also probably time for a mystery…..What do you guys think?


	5. Authors Note

Author's Note:

Hey guys, I'm sorry I've never posted another chapter on this, but here's the why, if you're interested. I think this is best left as is, and a new story needs to come into the picture. I won't give away too much of my two ideas, but here are some keywords:

1. Summer boredom (…Might involve a trip to America…?)

2. Angst (none of my stories are complete without it, apparently…)

3. Dancing (always squee-rific)

4. A trip to the opera/symphony (because it's fun and people like it!)

5. Someone gets a terminal illness (not disclosing who...yet.)

So, out of these things, I'd like to know which ones you like the best, and what other things you'd like to see in a Sherlock story. I promise the next story I publish will have a mystery! I'm working on typing up the prologue to an experimental one as we speak, so you'll get something out of me whether you care to comment on this or not.

Have a lovely day, cheers!

Jen :)


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